Unforgiving

by Nick Oldham

  ‘In what way?’ Henry responded in the manner of the trapped employee who knew he was being gunned for.

  ‘Every way.’

  ‘Fine.’ What was the acronym? Fucked-up. Insecure …? Henry could not quite remember.

  ‘Mm, OK.’ Ellison’s mouth twisted in disbelief. ‘On the day we spoke, you landed that investigation into the missing policewoman, Laura Marshall …’

  ‘The search for whom still continues to this day,’ Henry interjected.

  ‘But no breakthrough?’ It was a question, but also a statement of fact.

  ‘No,’ Henry whispered.

  ‘In a high-profile case that is worrying this organization massively … How does a cop and a car disappear without trace in this day and age?’

  Henry swallowed, making a dry clicking sound in his mouth. He almost countered, ‘How does an airliner full of passengers disappear in this day and age?’ but thought it might have been seen as a tad defensive.

  The chief arched his eyebrows, waiting. Henry said nothing and Ellison went on, ‘You also ended up with the tragic shooting of that young lad at Blackpool.’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Good result on that?’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘But … pretty straightforward stuff, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘A job any competent jack could have bottomed,’ Henry agreed, then wished he hadn’t.

  ‘Yeah, I’d say that, too.’ The chief hesitated slightly then said, ‘Now – up to date. Three cops shot at in a surveillance van, a defendant in court stabbed to death by an irate relative, and another cop shot down during a jewel robbery … all these things linked in some way.’

  Henry clamped his mouth tight shut, definitely not daring to speak or hardly even breathe. Fucked-up. Insecure …

  The chief pursed his lips. ‘I am right in thinking you were after Fraser Worthington?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he was linked to the guns found in Wayne Oxford’s possession?’

  ‘Kind of.’

  ‘So, you put on a surveillance operation with the hopeful intention of catching Worthington when he showed up to collect them?’

  Henry nodded, feeling the heat working his way up his collar, so boiling hot that his head was going to start whistling like a steam kettle. So this is what it looks like when an axe is falling, he thought.

  ‘Was it risk assessed properly? I only ask because the three cops cooped up in the back of a van almost lost their lives, Henry.’

  ‘It was a fast-moving investigation. I risk assessed on the hoof. It happens.’

  ‘Where is the assessment now?’ the chief asked. ‘You know – written down?’

  ‘I haven’t done it.’

  ‘OK … Wayne Oxford appeared in court this morning and was fatally attacked. What measures were in place to protect him and others?’

  ‘None,’ Henry admitted, his lips tight.

  ‘Was he considered to be a risk or at risk?’

  ‘On reflection—’

  ‘So were any measures put in place, or did he just get produced for court like any other run of the mill prisoner?’

  ‘I think you know the answer to that, sir.’

  ‘Tell me the answer, Henry.’

  ‘He was produced like any other prisoner … and no, I didn’t do a risk assessment.’

  ‘Clearly.’ During the course of this interchange the chief’s whole demeanour had altered: gone from warm to very chilly indeed. ‘Am I also right in thinking you did an unsuccessful surveillance operation of Fraser Worthington in amongst all this – and that when you briefed officers you showed them a fairly recent surveillance photo of Worthington walking along the main street in Lytham? Not a million miles from the jeweller’s shop he and his gang attempted to rob today?’

  ‘You’re going to pin that on me, too? There was no way I could have known he was going to rob a shop in Lytham today. I’m not Mystic Meg,’ he said, showing his age. ‘I don’t have a crystal ball.’

  Ellison watched him, bubbling. ‘I know that, but he could have been disrupted, could he not?’

  Henry shook his head. ‘That was on my to-do list for today – disrupt Fraser Worthington, a tête-à-tête to scare the crap out of him – but it didn’t happen because I got diverted.’ Henry’s voice had started to rise, but then fell away to nothing on the last few syllables.

  ‘Thing is, Henry, you’re too gung-ho. You don’t think things through … You’ve lost the plot, lost your grip on things, and people are getting hurt ever since FB died. Your judgement is flawed, and I cannot afford to have any officer, particularly at your level, making mistakes like this—’

  ‘Oh, no, no, no,’ Henry cut in.

  Ellison raised a finger. ‘Let me finish. I’ve decided that I’m going to relieve you of all your present caseload … I really do think that FB’s death has had a major effect on you and, as I said, your judgement is flawed because of it … In fact, your head is way up your arse.’

  ‘I’m not retiring for a month,’ Henry blurted.

  ‘I’m appointing someone else to take charge of Laura Marshall’s disappearance and the whole Wayne Oxford/Fraser Worthington debacle … and as regards your retirement, you are retiring. I have received your report in this matter and have accepted it, so until you actually reach retirement date, you will be transferred to the Human Resources department, or if you don’t like that, I’ll turn a blind eye to you not turning in for work for the next few weeks.’

  ‘Who’s taking over?’ Henry said, hardly having heard all those words spewing out of Ellison’s mouth.

  The chief stood up, went over to the office door and opened it.

  At that point Henry remembered it all: Fucked-up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional.

  Henry nodded at Jake Niven who, after having got his pint in his hand, had slid along the bar next to him. ‘Mind if I join you, boss?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Henry said. He glanced around the pub and said, ‘Fancy taking a seat?’

  They moved over to a deserted alcove and sat across from each other, divided by a small wobbly table. ‘How are you doing?’ Henry asked. After a shooting there was always a lot of touchy-feely questions, often more than necessary.

  ‘Well, seeing as how a guy who was my friend was shot dead in front of me, I killed someone, wounded another – who is critically injured – found my wife in the middle of all that shit, who then kicked me out for having an affair …’ Jake curled his lip. ‘Pretty good, I’d say … Oh, in addition to all that, the woman I was seeing has also told me to sling my hook, and I’ve been interviewed by two members of the Gestapo. Yeah,’ he said, nodding appreciatively, ‘pretty good … You, boss?’

  Henry considered the question for a moment and in the same vein replied, ‘Well, seeing as I was too late to save a prisoner’s life and now my professional competence has been severely questioned, if not damned to hell and back, and I’ve been put out to grass like an old dray horse, and then usurped by someone too close to home for comfort, pretty good too. Cheers.’ Henry raised his glass, clinked it with Jake’s, and both sank their beers.

  ‘Are we in for a sesh here?’ Jake asked. ‘I could do with one.’

  Henry scratched his head. ‘Sounds a good idea, but I’ve nowhere to roll home to around here any more, and you sound homeless too …’ Something clicked in Henry’s brain. ‘But I have an idea on that point … Let me make a call.’ He rooted out his mobile phone and minutes later he and Jake were leaving the Tram and Tower, passing Rik Dean as he walked to the pub across the car park.

  ‘Henry, I thought I’d find you here.’

  Henry simply walked past him, his head rotating as he gave Rik the dirtiest, most contemptible expression he could muster and said simply, ‘Back-stabber, Acting Detective Superintendent Dean.’ He knew it was ridiculous, but could not stop himself jerking his middle finger up at Rik.

  Colin Gorst stood in the muddy farmyard looking fearfully at the two dogs circling him. They we
re pit-bull terriers; their evil eyes fixed on him as they moved around him, deep growls emanating from their throats. For the moment, they were controlled as they listened to the soft commands of their owner, who stood facing Gorst.

  It was a huge effort for Gorst to remain upright on legs that felt as squishy as raw calamari, and of course he was also deeply regretting his decision to do what he’d thought was the right thing.

  ‘So the cops came,’ the man said, ‘and you drove off?’

  Gorst swallowed some lumpy bile in his throat. He could hardly say the word, ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You were the getaway driver, but as soon as a cop car showed up, you left your colleagues to their fate? Have I got that right?’ the man said softly.

  Gorse’s body twitched in fear. He jumped as one of the circling devil beasts got a tad too excited and let out a sharp yelp.

  ‘Which means that Big Mack is in police custody, Saul Dyer was shot and critically wounded, and Fraser Worthington was killed – shot by a fucking John Wayne cop. That is what I’m getting here.’

  ‘Yuh.’

  The man – the accuser – took a step forward. The dogs tightened their circle around Gorst. ‘And you came here to tell me this?’

  ‘I thought you would want to know … I thought …’

  ‘I thought, I thought,’ the man said, mimicking him cruelly. ‘You chickened out and gave none of them the chance to escape because of your cowardice.’

  ‘But the cops …’

  The man’s right hand slashed down through the air like an axe. The dogs stopped moving. They were standing on either side of Gorst now. ‘You ran – and my brother died.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Arlow,’ Gorst sobbed. ‘Fuck, if only I could …’

  ‘Go back in time?’ Arlow demanded.

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘But you can’t, can you? Because time travel doesn’t exist. You ran, one man got arrested, another wounded and my brother killed. You can’t change that, Colin.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Gorst said weakly. He could hear the dogs breathing and the slightly sickening flapping of their pink tongues in their mouths.

  Arlow Worthington nodded. ‘And now I have to take revenge, because that’s the only option for a grieving man in these circumstances.’ Arlow was wearing an old army surplus jacket. From the right hand pocket he extracted a small pistol.

  ‘I could’ve just fucked off,’ Gorst pleaded. ‘Not come to see you, to tell you … I could’ve gone, done a runner.’

  ‘In which case I would have hunted you down sooner rather than later, Colin.’ He raised the pistol, aimed it at Gorst’s face.

  ‘I don’t fucking deserve this! C’mon, I don’t,’ he pleaded, tears streaming down his face.

  ‘Nor did Fraser.’

  With a sudden surge of energy, a mix of the last fluid ounce of adrenalin and the flight factor, Gorst spun and ran.

  Arlow raised the gun and fired twice, quickly. The pistol recoiled in his grip. The first round hit Gorst in the left side of his neck, tearing out a meaty chunk as it passed through and ripped out his windpipe.

  The second smashed into him slightly higher, just at the back of his left ear, skewering into his skull, into his brain, mushrooming and exiting through his left eye, making a hole the size of a coaster. Gorst dropped, dead before he hit the ground.

  At a flick of Arlow Worthington’s hand, the two dogs attacked him, tearing him to pieces with ferocious, blood-crazed glee.

  TWELVE

  Henry awoke with his head feeling like a boiled egg must feel when someone is smashing it open with a teaspoon. He groaned, not daring to open his eyes.

  Then he heard a derisive laugh.

  He exhaled and shaded his eyes with a hand just in case the brightness would destroy his eyeballs like daylight disintegrates vampires. It wasn’t so bad. The curtains were still drawn, but when he squinted at the person hovering over him, an arc of shocking pain tore into his cranium behind his eyes.

  ‘Now that was a bender,’ Alison said. She was standing by the bed, arms folded, looking down at Henry with delight twinkling in her eyes.

  Henry groaned again and wondered how pickled his liver was. It felt like a house brick tucked under his rib cage. ‘Time is it?’

  ‘Just gone nine.’

  ‘In the evening? Have I slept for eighteen hours?’

  ‘Morning, silly arse.’

  Painfully, he propped himself up into a sitting position. ‘Late for work.’

  ‘From what you said last night, you have no work to go to.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ he said, rubbing his bloodshot eyes. ‘Long time since I’ve drunk that much.’

  ‘And all on the house.’

  ‘I’ll pay for it.’

  ‘Course you will,’ she said sarcastically.

  ‘Seen anything of Jake?’

  ‘Yep – he’s up, been for a run, showered, now eating a full English. The booze doesn’t seem to have affected him.’

  ‘He’s a young colt … I’m an ageing dray horse,’ Henry argued, using the metaphor he had been bandying about last night. ‘How does he seem?’

  ‘For someone who shot and killed another person, then got booted out of home by his missus? Shit, basically.’

  ‘I’ll go and motivate him.’

  ‘And who will motivate you?’

  Henry clacked his tongue in an effort to induce some moisture into his dry mouth, then tried to give Alison his best lascivious look, using his apparently permanently squinting eyes. ‘You?’ He let the duvet slip down to expose the flaccid mess that were his genitals.

  ‘Think again, bud,’ Alison groaned as she reared away with a look of horror. Then she relented, gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and left.

  He slumped back, feeling a desperate need for more sleep, but then rolled off the bed on to all fours and in this position crawled to the shower room. Before he reached his destination, the bedroom door opened and Alison looked in.

  ‘Henry! What the hell are you doing?’

  ‘Going for a shower,’ he said innocently from his hands and knees. ‘Seemed the easiest option.’

  ‘Whatever.’ She shook her head. ‘Forgot to tell you – Rik’s been on the phone for you.’

  ‘Well, you can tell that little back-stabbin’ shit-fuck to—’

  She slammed the door shut before hearing the final words of Henry’s foul-mouthed rant.

  Normally, Henry was pretty quick in the shower. In – shampoo – swill – out, but that morning he took it long and slow, lathering up repeatedly and washing off. Partly, he was savouring the decision not to rush into work, allowing himself a wicked chuckle when he thought about Rik Dean who would, hopefully, be floundering at that very moment. And partly he was still washing Wayne Oxford’s blood off himself.

  Henry actually liked Rik. He had championed him for many years, getting an enthusiastic thief-taking PC on to CID and up through the ranks, although it had never been Henry’s intention that Rik would step into his shoes quite this way. Rik was also on the verge of marrying Lisa, Henry’s flaky, younger sister, so he would have Rik as a brother-in-law soon: the bastard who had pinched his job.

  As he stood under the powerful jets of hot water, Henry knew he could not stay mad with Rik for too long. It wasn’t Rik’s fault he’d been chosen to take on Henry’s workload, and it really wasn’t in Henry’s nature to be too obstructive, though the devil in him knew that he would be for a tiny while.

  This was because Henry knew his first responsibility was towards the missing, probably, undoubtedly, murdered policewoman and the dead schoolboy Jamie Turner and his family, who would now be in a very special form of hell. As much as Jamie’s father had killed Wayne Oxford, Henry knew there was still a lot of work to do with the family to help them get through the horrible mess they were now in. He did not want the police to abandon them.

  So perhaps he would tease Rik for a while and get some pleasure from seeing him squirm.

  He dried off, d
ressed casually and went along to the kitchen of the Tawny Owl where Alison and her stepdaughter, Ginny, were busy prepping breakfasts for the paying guests.

  Alison smiled. ‘My, you look almost human now,’ she said, appraising him. ‘Not like that grotesque creature from Alien that woke up in my bed.’

  ‘From the cocoon comes the butterfly,’ Henry said with a twirl.

  ‘Bap?’ she asked.

  Henry sidestepped the double entendre and graciously took the proffered Cumberland sausage bap and a mug of steaming coffee. ‘Is he still in the dining room?’

  ‘Yes … Er,’ Alison said awkwardly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘How long will he be staying? We’re not running a waifs and strays charity here, you know.’

  ‘Don’t know … Probably be gone today. I guess I just wanted to offer him a safe harbour for the night.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ she said.

  He walked out of the kitchen into the pub itself: the main bar area to his left and the dining room through a door to his right. Glancing through, he saw Jake sitting alone at a table in the bay window. Two couples sat at other tables, everyone devouring their breakfasts, which had developed a good reputation in the area, as had the Tawny Owl as a whole, having been resurrected from oblivion when Alison took it over several years before. It was now a thriving business, popular with locals and travellers alike.

  Henry decided not to interrupt Jake for the moment; instead, he stepped out on to the front steps and perched his bum on the stone wall that formed the perimeter of the car park. Armed with his brew and sausage bap, he took in the morning whilst hoping his headache would subside.

  ‘Morning, boss.’

  Henry half-turned as he bit into his sandwich. ‘Morning, Jake, how are you? Been for a run, I hear?’

  ‘Yeah … My running kit was in the suitcase. Very thoughtful, my missus.’

  ‘I’m impressed.’

  ‘It was a grind, especially after last night – which I’d like to thank you for. It was a good idea to come here.’

  ‘Pleasure. I’d like to say you can stay for as long as you like, but …’